Color the Stars
by bean
Summary: A boy and an elf journey to visit Galadriel. Meanwhile, Sauron is reaching for his Ring.
1. Road goes ever on

Color the Stars: Chapter I 

The sons of Elrond had found the human child alone in the dark woods and brought him to Rivendell. Even as he stood before the lord of Rivendell, grimy and smeared with soil, the boy's resemblance to an elf was startling, especially the eyes. It was declared that the boy would stay in Rivendell and be taught the ways of the Eldar.

Seven summers passed and the boy lost his elven features. His hair grew unruly and thick, his face was always dirty, he dressed like a hobbit, and he was clumsy in manner. He could not wield a sword or cast a bow, although he tried his hardest. When he was taught the ancient lore, he always muddled up the names. 

Many of the elves said it was just the Man in his nature and so they named him Danlin, a name given to many human boys.

But Danlin did have redeeming qualities. He was the artist of Rivendell, wielding a brush with skill equaling old Nimdor's, who painted Celebrian's portrait centuries ago. For this reason, Galadriel of the Golden Wood invited him to Lorien. 

Danlin jumped at the chance. He packed a large roll of paper, his brushes and paints into his haversack. To keep his ink sticks from breaking, he stuffed them into his socks. Then, he hung his traveling hat on his bedpost and went to sleep.

At the crack of dawn, Danlin rushed to the stables, where Master Elrond had told him to meet his guide. Danlin hoped the sons of Elrond would be traveling with him; they were friendly and nice to him, even if he had the blood of Men in his veins. 

Two horses had already been prepared, and they stamped the ground, neighing spiritedly.

"You're late," said a voice. 

"Sorry," he puffed, still catching his breath.

The elf helped him on the horse and Danlin hoped he wouldn't fall off.

Actually, the ride wasn't that bad. When they reached a stream, the elf allowed him to stop for breakfast. While his escort rubbed down the horses, Danlin cooked.

It was a very good meal, even if the sausages were slightly burnt. Danlin thought they tasted better that way.

"I hope Lorien food is good," he commented.

His guide just smiled. 

Danlin bit into a juicy pear. "I mean, Rivendell elves just don't seem to eat very much. I'm only eleven, and I eat twice the amount of food you do. And I'm still scrawny and you're taller than me."

He thought for a moment. "Well, you've had a thousand years head start." He nibbled the pear down to the core and threw it into the river.

Then he washed out the frying pan while the elf filled up the canteens. And they were on their way again.

  
***

The orcs made good time through the woods. Although their Master could not spare them any horses, they were still fleet of foot. They had been sent to the Misty Mountains to find the creature Gollum. 

Dispatched in bands, each sought to find the creature first and win the favor of their Master. They spread out in every direction, hunting for their prey, following the wind. When night fell, they still pursued, following the stars.

***

Danlin had gathered a bundle of twigs and brambles and tried to start a fire. He hit the flint so hard, sparks jumped everywhere, but just as he'd got a fire going, he was out of wood.

He trudged off for more. It was dark, and brushwood was hard to find. The moon was high overhead when Danlin realized he'd collected enough branches to thatch a roof. Then, he realized he was lost. Lastly, he realized he didn't know the elf's name, so he couldn't even call for help.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he yelled at himself. _How can you talk to someone for a whole day and not know the elf's name? Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He wandered around a little more, the firewood still in his arms. Danlin wasn't afraid of being in the woods; he had been living with elves long enough to know that elves were never afraid, and so he shouldn't be afraid either, even if he was just a human.

Still, the wind was breathing down his back and the moon looked a bit greenish. The sky was cloudy and the trees hid the stars. It was a creepy. He folded his arms over his knees, buried his head in his arms and tried to sleep.

He must have spent hours like that, his eyes shut, and his ears open, listening and hearing nothing. Then, there was a pat on his back, and he slowly raised his head and brushed his messy hair from his eyes. Then he smiled.

The elf helped him up. As they walked back to the camp, the sky began to flush pink, like the tender rosebuds that grew in the gardens of Imdralis.

As Danlin yawned away his sleepiness, he remembered to ask, "What's your name?"

"Arwen."

Danlin repeated it, and tried to find the elvish translation. "Arwen, 'outside maiden'. What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged and shook her head. The sun was lighting the sky aglow, and the light seemed to frame Arwen's dark hair, making a hazy halo. 

"Well," Danline said, as he trudged on, "I'm glad to meet you, Arwen."

__


	2. Tidings from Ticksborough

Color the Stars: Chapter II

When they returned to their camp, Danlin's eyes widened with alarm. The site had been sacked, and the horses, taken. Clumps of dirt lay strewn upon the ground and there was a foul smell in the air. 

Danlin could see that in the still smoldering fires lay the glowing embers of the emblem of Imladris torn from the saddlebags. His paper and paintbrushes were also destroyed, but his inksticks had somehow survived the heat. These he carefully scooped up and placed into his pockets.

Arwen looked worried, even afraid, though Danlin knew she was trying not to seem so. He also knew that put together, all they had were a set of inksticks, his traveling hat, Arwen's cloak, five copper coins, a sling and twelve round stones. And resourceful as elves are, he knew his hat and his paints would not be very useful.

"What are we going to do?" said Danlin, very very quietly.

"We'll take the main road to the nearest town. Perhaps the people have heard some news…"

"And then?"

"We'll walk to Lorien."

"Who did this?" Danlin finally asked, as they headed towards the little village of Ticksborough. 

To his annoyance, she didn't answer. Sometimes, elves were just so secretive. 

***

Ticksborough contained three farmhouses, seven shacks, a stable and a tavern. These were built to form a circle facing inwards, and in the center of the village was a rusty old well. No one drank the water from that well.

Before entering the tavern, Arwen put her hood over her head so that it hid her face. The bar was a dingy room with no windows. Three lanterns lit the room. The thick air smelled of pipe smoke, grog, and vomit. The floors were slippery with who-knows-what.

They sat down at the counter and waited for bits of conversation. The bartender kept giving Arwen impatient stares, glaring as he poured frothy drinks into the mugs of the men around her. After the bartender frowned at her for the fifth time, she ordered the cheapest beverage there, a murky frothing concoction that she didn't dare touch. The Lump on her right took her tankard and chugged it all down in one breath. He didn't even choke. 

The drink must have loosened the guy up, because he started telling his life story. He complained that his goat was too old to plow and his useless rooster couldn't lay eggs. Then he told them about the raiders who stole his corn, and Farmer Dudd's squash, and marm Mothfield's prized cider apples, and how Mr. Wine's ol' hound Jugger was found sliced to smithereens in Babbling Brook just yesterday. 

The Lump went on and on and on, with his eyes all glassy and numb. Being careful not to trip over the mess on the floor, Danlin quickly followed Arwen out of the tavern.

***

"How many more days is it to Lorien?" Danlin asked, tripping along to keep up with Arwen. They were on the southern road again, headed for foothills of the Misty Mountains.

"About eight days." 

He nodded. Already he could see the transition from forest to tundra. Soon, the ground would get rocky as they approached the Mountains. Already, he could imagine how much his feet would hurt hiking up a mountain. There would be a lot of blisters to pop before the day was over.

A warbler whistled _cheerup, cheerup_ in the trees. Blowing hard on his knuckles, Danlin tried to answer back. He managed only a feeble whistle, but the bird still sang a reply anyway. This made Arwen smile for a moment.

Then, her eyes narrowed as she motioned for Danlin to be silent and hide. From where he crouched behind a boulder, he could see Arwen standing in the shadows. Somehow, she'd picked up a solid switch of wood, even though he hadn't heard or seen her move at all. 

He tipped his hat forward a bit, hoping it would block his vision and dampen his breathing. Even then, he could imagine a band of attackers encircling them from all sides of the woods. _Shut up, shut up, shut up, brain, _he ordered.

The silence broke. To his horror, Arwen moved into plain view. The thousand arrows he pictured were not fired. Arwen was still in one piece and she hadn't been skewered or punctured. Then she shouted, "Hail Gildor of the House of Finrod."

Danlin saw Arwen talking to another elf. He was very tall and although he was very graceful, he still looked every inch a warrior. 

Suddenly, he felt someone from behind yank his collar and raise him a foot above the ground. "What be this?" the voice called. 

"Why, it's a Hobbit." 

Danlin wiggled a bit. The hand that was grasping him was very strong. 

"Hobbits haven't gone journeying since Bilbo Baggins."

"Wait, Limlir, put him down. He's no Hobbit. He's a boy! A scruffy little human boy."

Danlin felt a dozen eyes staring at him. "Hi?"

After explaining to Gildor and his band of High Elves their destination as well as their dilemma, Gildor offered to accompany them throughout their journey. "Especially," he said seriously, looking hard at Arwen, "especially over the Redhorn Pass."

"I can manage," she said, quietly.

"The Shadow is growing. The Enemy is moving," Gildor said, noting how she avoided his eyes. "And accidents can happen again."

"Thank you, but I can manage." 

Danlin left them to discuss the matter further. He wandered towards the elves' fireside, where there was much music and food. Limlir waved him over and handed him a hot bowl of soup. It was good, much better than the food they'd bartered for in Ticksborough.

"So, I heard you're a painter," Limlir said. "What do you like to draw?"

"Animals," said Danlin, as he stirred the broth, "and rocks. No, really, painting rocks are a lot of fun. Each stone comes out different, depending on how wet your brush is and how absorbent the paper is. So every stroke counts. You have to be bold."

"Complicated. I prefer doodling with a charred stick."

"That's too messy for Rivendell. When I was little, I liked to finger-paint. Me and Elrohir, we'd go and doodle all over the paths. Master Elrond got pretty mad at us when we spilled paint over the gazebo, and we spent the next week white-washing it."

"That's too bad."

"No, white-washing's a lot of fun. Only we got carried away and coated one of lord Glorfindel's favorite statues."

He paused to listen to the music. The story-teller was in the middle of the Lay of Luthien, which he found terribly long and boring. Of course, that was because it was a love story. But he never forgot that tale and he could always bring back a mental picture of Luthien after that. Quickly, he shook that thought away. "Say, is that your dog over there?" Danlin pointed at the mutt curled by the fire.

"Yes, he's ours," said Limlir proudly, "we picked him up in Hobbiton. He doesn't look like much, but he's got the best nose of anyone east of Valinor."

"What's his name?"

"We haven't decided yet. He's just Boy right now." At this, the dog wagged his tail and trotted over.

Danlin let Boy lick his soup bowl. "You're a good boy, Boy"

"Are you planning on crossing the Caradhas on foot?" Limlir asked, casually, as he gave Boy a belly rub.

"Yeah, we are. Is that bad?" Danlin asked, worriedly.

"Well, it's a difficult mountain," said the elf, slowly, "You'd best start before dawn. And you had better take Boy with you." 

***

  



	3. The Redhorn Pass

Color the Stars: part III

"Did you notice how much harder it is to walk on rocks?" asked Danlin, as he sat down on a boulder and wiped his forehead. "I think it's time for another break."

"We can't stop now," said Arwen, firmly. Danlin thought this odd, for she seemed tremendously weary, even if she set an extremely fast pace.

Boy, however, bounded with excitement. At every little sound, he would let out a loud yowl. Arwen would flinch and her knuckles tightened. But Boy was only howling at the rabbits. 

By the day's end, they managed to climb a third of the mountain. 

"Can we please stop for a bit?" Although he knew elves never complained, he couldn't help it.

To his relief, Arwen nodded. He quickly dug into the haversack and pulled out the last hunk of hard bread and broke it in half. Then, Danlin fed Boy some leathery beef jerky.

Between mouthfuls, he asked, "Say, Arwen, what's so bad about the Redhorn Pass?"

She stayed silent for a very long time. Then she said very quietly, "My mother was attacked there. Father could not fully heal her…so she left forever."

"Is that why you're afraid of the Pass? If you'd let him, Gildor would have come."

"I'm not afraid." Arwen said, looking past Danlin to the setting sun in the West. 

Long after Danlin fell asleep, she stayed still as a statue, staring at the starless horizon.

The next day, the sky was gray. Snow covered rocks made passage extremely difficult. Unfortunately for him, Danlin slipped and tumbled a couple more times. _Well, at least Boy is enjoying himself_, he thought, watching the hound roll playfully in the snow. 

As they neared the summit, Danlin could see his breath suspended in the air. It was so cold that Arwen gave him her cloak. 

"You sure?" he asked, trying not to shiver, but failing all the same.

She nodded. Danlin was amazed. Elves were so lucky to be impervious to the cold. 

The Redhorn was a narrow ridge with sheer cliffs on one side, and a sheer drop on the other. It looked as if the ground was paved with ice.

"You sure there's no other way?" said Danlin, hesitantly.

Arwen shook her head grimly. "I would never step foot in dark Moria."

They were halfway through the Pass when the storm set it. "I guess ol' Caradhas is paying us back for the nice weather." Danlin said with a forced shrug.

But the snowflakes kept falling, larger, heavier, faster. And the winds rose, tumultuous and wild, scattering icy snow into their faces. In some places, the snow reached well above Danlins' knees. He tried walking behind Arwen, in her already-made tracks, but she traveled lightly over the snow. Well, at least she was blocking the wind by being in the front.

Soon, the blizzard became intolerable, with winds carrying huge drifts of snow and dumping it over their heads, burying them completely. Digging his way out, Danlin heard Arwen mumble some elvish, which he didn't quite catch. Something about the Misty mountains and snow.

But he did notice that the blizzard lessened and the snow fell more gently. It must have been elven magic. Danlin was impressed; he had never seen any before, not even from Elrohir. 

But the winds were still howling at terrific speeds, tossing them around even as they clung to the cliffs. Just looking at the drop on the other side made Danlin queasy. He had never been one for heights.

A sudden squall came up from behind, knocking him hard into Arwen. Balance lost, she rolled over the brim, with only her fingers clinging grimly to the icy ledge. As her legs dangled uselessly in the fierce winds, Arwen felt herself slipping.

At the last moment, a scrawny little wrist shot out from above, hands clasping her own. And as Danlin somehow pulled her up from the abyss, she saw his face, pleasantly surprised.

"Wow," he breathed, smiling, "wow."

The rest of the journey was much easier after that. The wind seemed to push them along, blowing them faster across the Pass and down to Dimrill Dale. It was Arwen that found the caves.

Exhausted, she immediately lay down to rest. She didn't even bother to scrape the snow off her garments. But she did not sleep soundly.

Boy curled up by Danlin's feet, making an excellent toe-warmer, but neither of them slept. Danlin just sat there, trying not to move, with his legs tightly crossed.

"Arwen," he whispered, voice oddly loud, "do you hear that?"

She didn't answer. When he listened again, he only heard the plinking of dripping. 

The caves were slightly creepy in the dreary darkness. He'd be much calmer if there was light. The soft glow from a lightening bug or a patch of starry sky would do just fine. A fire would be nice as well.

Slowly picking himself up, he went in search of dry firewood, making sure that Boy came with him. It took a while, but soon he had a lovely fire going. 

Now he could see the black paintings on the walls of the cave. The mural seemed to soldiers with hideous faces victorious in battle. Danlin thought it quite ugly. He bet he could draw better than that.

***

The Orc captain almost laughed at his good fortune. First, the weather had greatly improved, even though it was still drizzling. Then, a lantern in the dale had guided him to the Tunnels, a series of coves that had served as their forts back in the days of Melkor. 

As he looked with his razor keen vision, he could see a young boy, a dog, and a sleeping figure huddled at the neck of the cave. Motioning to his troops, he drew out his spear, as did the others. They needed some entertainment every now and then.

***

And yet the Orcs were unaware of the solitary pair of eyes watching them from the shadows. Although he, too, had just come out of Mordor, he was cautious and kept his distance. But he did not stop watching.

***

Boy suddenly barked. The crazy dog kept yipping and yapping into the silent darkness. "Quiet, you'll wake Arwen," he scolded, putting his hand over Boy's mouth.

He rubbed Boy's head, scratched his ears, and tried to get him to lie down, but Boy wiggled out of his grasp.

"Whatcha doing?" Danlin muttered, scrambling after his dog. Then he looked up.

Squinting into the dark, he could barely see a band of shadowy demons, twisted and bent, with spears and swords in their hands. 

Inching backwards towards Arwen, he shook her urgently. "Wake up! Wake up, something's there."

It only took her a second to realize the surrounding evil. "Orcs," she said, surprised and dismayed. Although her brothers had taught her how to defend herself, she'd never had to prove her skills. And she had no sword with her. Making no visible motion, her hand groped for a large rock. 

"Danlin, get behind me." 

He did so, so that she was between him and the Orcs. 

Then, she said in elvish so only he could hear, "Run."

"Where?" He shouted, looking wildly at the dark tunnels.

The Orcs immediately drew out their weapons, rushing at them. Arwen spun around, and pushed him towards the tunnels. 

He ran until he could no longer hear the clashing of swords. When he finally stopped, he noticed he was alone in the dark, completely lost. "Arwen?" he called tentatively into the darkness. His voice echoed, bouncing back and forth, sounding more and more lost as it faded away. 

For a long time, there was only silence, but then, Danlin was sure he could hear a flute, clear and strong. He followed that song, feeling a little less forlorn. But he never seemed to catch up with the piper, who led him along the twists and turns.

Then, the music stopped and Danlin saw that he was about a hundred feet from the entrance of the caves. A haggard being—definitely an elf—stood gazing, flute in hand. Danlin wondered what the elf was looking at. 

"Ah, the nightingale," sighed the elf, and pressed the flute into Danlin's hands. Then, he made his way back into the shadows, his form not quite so bent or worn as before. 

Danlin tucked the flute into his pocket and ran back to Arwen.

She was hunched over by the fire, her back to him. Around her lay hideous figures, most with their heads or arms swiped off. She didn't seem to notice the bodies surrounding her, but Danlin wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

"Arwen," he said, tapping her hesitantly on the shoulder.

She relaxed at his voice. "Danlin, thank goodness you're back."

"Are you okay?"

She nodded. "I though I'd lost you."

"Oh, I lost myself. But an elf helped me find my way."

"Elf?" she said quietly, in a funny voice.

"Yeah, he played the pipe and he led me back to you. It was a song I knew—I swear I've heard it before—and it was really sad. That elf has the best ear, but his eyes are pretty awful. He thought you were a bird."

"You're making it up, child," came a voice.

"Am not!" Danlin retorted, before he even saw who'd spoken. 

A weather-beaten man in a tattered cloak stood at the neck of the caves, with Boy at his feet. One a belt, he wore a bloodied sword without a scabbard. In his hands he held a bundle of green weeds. When Danlin took a closer look, he saw that the weeds were really herbs.

"No elf with any sense would come here. This place used to be a stronghold of Morgoth. Just look at the pictures on the wall—the evil is apparent." Then, the stranger flushed when he realized he had insulted Arwen. Quickly taking the herbs and handing them to her, he instructed, "chew."

"What happened?" Danlin asked, peering at her face. There were rags bandaged around her head, covering her eyes. He noticed her hands were raw with blisters. 

"Nothing," Arwen muttered. "I just burned myself."

"No way," Danlin said, "it happened during the fight, right?"

He didn't need a reply to know the answer to his own question. "They're cheap. They fight dirty."

"The Ranger was right," Arwen said slowly, "I should have realized the danger. But I didn't and I put you in harm's way."

"Yeah, well I'm fine. You're the one that got hurt."

"Let's go." She rose and painstakingly walked towards the entrance, one hand against the wall. 

Danlin stared peculiarly at her for a moment. Then it hit him. _She can't see._

"Come on," said the Ranger, as he helped Arwen onto his mount.

"Why is he coming with us?" Danlin said, in a whisper louder than he meant. 

"I can guide you to the Golden Wood." 

Danlin looked the man up and down, eyes lingering for a moment on his stained blade. "I don't even know your name."

"My name is Strider."

"You're lying. That can't be your real name!"

Strider laughed and repeated, "Come on, Danlin. We'd best hurry if we're to make it to Pin."

"And why do we want to go to there?"

"Oh, to get fresh bandages. Besides, I have to pick up a parcel left there for safekeeping. Pin is so small it isn't on any map. It's a very safe place to be, if you desire to lay low for a while."

"But I don't."

"Perhaps some day you may. It is always good to know the roads."

"Erm—thanks for the advice." Danlin shook his head, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. Rangers were queer folk. 

***

Being an excellent rider, Arwen had always felt at ease on a horse. But riding blindly with a strange man leading was a different matter. But she did not feel any maliciousness or sly intent from him. Boy didn't bark at Strider or try to bite him. But after the cave incident, she did not really trust her own judgement.

From below, she could hear Danlin and Strider conversing about the newest type of arrows—nicknamed "the Porcupine", Moria made with mithril tips—and how they compared with elven shafts. There was something vaguely familiar about Strider's voice. She felt as if she should know him.

He certainly acted as if he knew her. She wondered how he knew. 

***

Pin is a small town, but it has more buildings than Ticksborough. It also looks more pleasant, smells more pleasant, and feels more pleasant than Ticksborough, because it is a friendly place.

Strider led them to a little inn called The Cozy Stockings, which had exactly one room to rent, and allowed dogs to stay indoors. Then, he disappeared off into the general store and came back with a package.

"Is that the parcel you were expecting?" Danlin asked, as he watched Strider unwrap the brown packaging paper.

"No," said Strider, as he pulled out a long ribbon of gauze and a bottle of disinfectant, which he set on the couch. 

"Strider," Danlin called to the Ranger, who was washing his hands, "do you mind if I keep the paper?"

"Not at all."

While Strider cleaned Arwen's burns, Danlin drew. It wasn't as great as painting, but it felt good just to sketch again. First, he drew Boy, who was down on his stomach staring sleepily into space. Danlin liked his picture, especially how he made Boy look so lazily content. In need of another subject, he tried drawing Arwen. That didn't go so well. Staring at the mess on the paper—charcoal does not erase easily—Danlin frowned and crumpled it up. He probably should have been more careful, more detailed, but that would have meant sitting still longer.

There was a rap at the door. Mrs. Holme, smiling in a kitchen apron with four white dancing geese, said it was dinnertime.

Danlin ate the heartiest meal he'd ever had. Humans, unlike elves, are not as finicky about the art of the dish as much as heaping as much good food as one can manage on the plate. Danlin managed three full plates, wolfing down soups, breads, hams, pies, everything.

As Danlin consumed with voracity, Strider and Arwen were conversing with the innkeepers, Mr. and Mrs. Holme. Mr. Holme told them about the maple syrup harvest, the town's new belfry, and how the general store's shipments were lost and found. It was mundane prattle, and there wasn't anything worth hearing until Mrs. Holme obliviously told Strider how pleased she was to meet his family. Danlin almost choked laughing at the absurdity of the idea; they'd only known Strider for less than a day.

They stayed up late into the night, Mr. Holme playing folksongs on the fiddle. At one point, Mrs. Holme coaxed Strider into dancing with her; he was quite good as he jigged across the floor. Danlin was amazed at how normal Strider looked. When they'd first met, he seemed foul and mysterious. But here, he seemed kind of nice, especially now that he was cleaned up and not wearing his sword. 

Before they left in the morning, Mrs. Holme handed Danlin a haversack, with soap and socks, just so he could stay clean. A little ruefully, he thought that if he had grandparents, he'd want them to be just like the Holmes. 

"Five more days," he whispered to himself, "five more days to Lorien."

__


End file.
